


Thundersmack

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:51:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesus, Hart was unmanageable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thundersmack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> For lionessvalenti, an excellent pornicator, and a great co-writer. Happy Crimmas. Thanks to 51stcenturyfox for the betazzercise!

Lisa used to have a word for men like John Hart: manchild. Ever since Jack had hired him, Hart had settled into the Hub and spread out like a slime mold or...something that spread out and left a sticky film of filth everywhere. It was true that John was an excellent engineer–who the fuck knew? Gwen asked—and about as good as Jack with computers (which meant that they equaled about 60% Toshiko). In between them, Jack and John probably had knowledge of about 80% of the shit that fell through the rift, even if they often didn't know what to do with it after they identified it. Jack liked to set it aside and stare at it for a while. John liked to scour it, looking for big red buttons, which he would then depress.

Some of the time, Ianto wasn't sure why they had hired Hart. Logically, he understood it. Jack wanted to keep an eye on him, make sure he stayed out of trouble. And based on the trouble he managed to get into at Torchwood, Ianto could only imagine what he was like when there wasn't a leash, however imaginary.

On the other hand, Ianto wasn't sure why Hart was there. He certainly enjoyed destroying things that shouldn't be destroyed, punching things that shouldn't be punched (well, some of the time), and putting his hands and sometimes tongue places it really shouldn't be ("It's only temporary," Jack muttered. "Don't get excited, jackass." And then, realising what he'd said, "Don't. Rule one: you don't go near my ass. Or Ianto's. _Or_ Gwen's. Or anyone's, really. _Ever. Capisce_?").

Take now, for instance. Hart had taken apart about three Feltian…somethings—he said they were sex toys, but Ianto suspected that Hart called everything he didn't understand or recognise a sex toy—and left their oily deposits everywhere. It was as if he had purposefully lubed up his hands and gallivanted about the hub, caressing and poking everything that could hold prints.

Ianto stood in front of Hart's workstation and sighed. "I understand that you like the coffee, but really, it's best if you let me do it."

Hart didn't look up from the gadget in his hand, instead leaning against the edge of the work desk and turning a few knobs. "Yeah, well, I think you were waxing something. Polishing something." Then he did glance up, a little quirk of the mouth. "You like how everything shines, right?"

Ianto lowered the coffee pot and wondered if he could crack Hart across the jaw with it. Or if when he did it, the damage would warrant a wired jaw. Oh god, the bliss of Hart with a wired jaw.

He'd probably just make flash cards, or a voice box like Stephen Hawking.

"I wonder," Hart mused, faux mused, really, "How shiny is Jack's cock, now that you're on the case?"

Okay. Ianto could feel the tips of his fingers contacting the palm of his hand even with his grip on the coffeepot. "I'll say this once. Stay. Away. From. The coffeepot." He sighed. "And anything else that isn't expressly yours or work related."

Hart twirled the gadget on one finger. "The coffee pot is work related."

Ianto loosened his grip on the pot and crossed his arms. "Not _your_ work. If you want coffee, ask, and if I'm in the mood, I'll make you some. Otherwise, this thing—" he waved the pot, "—is off limits."

"What are you going to do, spank me?" John tossed the gadget on the cluttered work desk and smirked.

This was unforeseen. It wasn't as if Ianto had expected him to be compliant, but he had rather expected a stream of invective, not—

"Oh yeah, right, Head Boy, I bet you saw lots of caning at Hogwarts," John chirped, turning away; he bent over the work desk and slapped his arse with the flat of his palm. "I'm naughty." He jostled from the ball of one foot to another to shake his arse back and forth a bit. "Come on, crack the whip." He looked back at Ianto, and if he had had raw meat hanging from his mouth in bloody strips, he couldn't have looked more predatory. "Give me what's for."

Ianto set the pot down on the table nearest him and turned on his heel, making for the upper levels of the Hub.

"Oh come _on_ ," John yelled after him. "Where's my sound thrashing?"

Ianto barely made it to the upper boardroom before he had to sit in the farthest chair, out of sight of John, the cameras, Jack's office. He leant on the table and rested his head in his hands. Jesus, Hart was unmanageable. At least Owen had been subdued by a few well-chosen words (and once a gunshot wound).

Ianto caught his breath and stared at the glossy finish of the table. Somewhere on a lower level Jack was singing to Myfanwy, probably completely ignorant of the altercation of a few minutes ago. Ianto's hands lowered and he stared at the gun calluses on his palm. He stretched out his hand and brought it down on the tabletop in a thundercrack.

Well then, if that was the way it had to be.

***

It wasn't as if he was looking for a row. It was more that Ianto had decided, with a bit of determinism after going home to his flat and staring at the wall whilst drowning in a bottle of Maker's Mark, that he wasn't going to put up with it anymore.

The fact of the matter was, though, how he 'wasn't going to put up with it anymore' was a bit of a mystery. He thought about passive-aggressive words and actions, maybe letting Hart think he had the upper hand. He found himself perusing the child-rearing section of the paltry book selection at ASDA the next afternoon on his lunch hour and he almost hit himself in the forehead right then and there. John Hart was a grown man, and he was not going to coddle or manipulate him. The were going to work this out like adults, and then Hart would stay the fuck away from Ianto and his shit.

If not, maybe he could shoot him. It _had_ done wonders for Owen.

Later in the day while going through his kit, certain conspicuous items were missing, and Ianto had three guesses as to where they had gone. The first two individuals would never touch his things, and that left—

"Door number three," Ianto muttered, steeling himself and descending to the lower level of the atrium and Suzie's old workstation, where Hart had spread out his toys.

"Have you seen my…" Ianto stopped in front of the workbench and stared at the disassembled stun gun laid out in front of him. _His_ stun gun. "Ah."

Hart bumped Ianto's shoulder with his own as he came to stand next to him in front of the table. His hands toyed with the same gadget he had been playing with the day before. He glanced at the table and shrugged. "I needed the parts. Did you know that when you replace the firing—"

"You took apart my stun gun."

"Uh," Hart blinked, then made what Ianto could only call his 'Duh' face. "Yeah, I did." He turned away from Ianto and set the gadget on the table, then leant forward to grab something else.

Ianto wasn't sure what sound he would hear when his mind finally snapped, but in retrospect it sounded like a cross between a piano wire breaking and a gong falling down a flight of stone stairs. His hands acted of their own accord, one grasping for Hart's left wrist and yanking it behind, the other forming a fist that punched Hart cleanly in the back of the head. Hart let out a yelp of surprise and fell forward, his other hand attempting to brace himself on the tabletop and failing; it slipped under him until it was trapped between his chest and the greasy surface.

"Hey now," Hart gasped, "where did this come from?"

Ianto pulled Hart's arm harder and the man grunted. "Now, I know you won't want to be hitting me," Ianto whispered, "because mystery bruising that I shan't explain will only cause Jack to ask questions." He tugged the arm again, his other hand rubbing a tight spiral down the small of Hart's back. How fortuitous that he didn't wear that thick jacket all the time. The shirt, having seen better days, was rather thin, and the heat coming from Hart's skin alone made Ianto curious. "I know they say that you're good as long as you avoid the face and arms, but you know Jack, he's _very_ thorough. And you know how he likes to leave the lights on."

"Oh?" Hart grunted, jostling his shoulders before Ianto yanked on his arm and he let out a strangled shout.

Ianto shrugged a little, just for effect. "Well, maybe not when you knew him. Maybe he didn't want to see what he was fucking."

Hart glanced over his shoulder, and the raw meat look was back. Ianto wanted to take care of that look. "Oh well, if I had a piece of eye candy like you, I'd probably fuck you on the table during the afternoon br—"

Ianto's hand left the small of Hart's back and barely had time to swing back before it landed on Hart's arse with a resounding slap that was a great deal louder than Ianto had intended. He paused with his hand on the muscle, head tilted, listening for sounds of movement throughout the Hub. Gwen was obviously still out, and Jack, if he was anywhere, was not going to get involved.

Ianto wasn't sure whether or not he wanted Jack to see this. Though he had to admit, the idea of Jack up in his office, hand slowly creeping into his trousers as he splayed back in his chair, eyes glued to the monitor, had a small amount of appeal.

He winked at the camera just in case.

Hart's body was stiff with the smack, pressed into the edge of the table, and Ianto pushed him further down so that his chest was almost flush with the surface. Ianto's hand left Hart's arse and instead ran up the back, over the bent arm, to his neck, to push Hart's face into a totalled Tanax time ring they'd picked up last week in Penarth.

"If you know what's good for you," Ianto crooned, as if he were trying to coax food into a child or a cat from a tree. "You'll stay very still when I let go of you. Hands on the table. We'll chat."

"Oh Jones, I _always_ listen when you use those Welsh vo—"

Ianto was surprised at the speed his hand possessed as it landed on Hart's arse again, stinging the palm and the lower knuckles. He brought it back and swung harder, noting with satisfaction the slight grimace on Hart's face. From then on, it was just bringing the point across. With violence, if need be (and of course, need…needed be. Needed been?).

"I tire," ( _Smack._ ) "of your bollocks," ( _Smack._ ) "Hart. In fact," ( _Smack._ ) "just the mere _thought_ of you," ( _Smack._ ) "exhausts me." ( _Smack smack smack._ ) "If you intend to remain here," he muttered, rubbing his hand on Hart's arse as much to give himself a break as John, who leant back into the touch, his eyes closed, jaw clenched. Ianto wondered if Hart was hard, because _he_ was. Hrm. Unexpected.

Hart raised his head minutely so that he could turn it and eye Ianto peripherally. "You're going to make this a regular thing th—"

 _Smack_ , followed by a shove on Hart's arse so that his cock was jammed into the table-edge and he screeched, he fucking _screeched_. Ianto's own cock pulsed for a second and he had to stop, press his palm flat on Hart's arse and close his eyes. He lost track of the seconds, then, until Hart slid back against his hand, not much, a milimetre maybe, but enough to remind him that he was there, that they were in the middle of something.

Ianto lifted his hand and stared at the flat of his palm. It wasn't magic, it was a weapon that transported them somewhere else, and in this world he could—

 _Smack._

"You'll never touch my things again, Hart." And then, leaning in as far as he dared without pressing his suit front against Hart's grubby shirt, he pressed his lips to the man's ear. "I won't tell you what I'll do if you do, because I know how you love that."

Hart humped the desk edge, Ianto reached between his legs and thought about grabbing Hart's balls through his trousers, but refrained, busying his hands with one final rev up and resounding slam against Hart's arse before he pulled the man up by the collar so that he could slam his torso into the worktable one more time. He released him, telling himself not to step back, not to dance away, and to anticipate retaliation.

His hands itched. His cock ached, but he didn't want to do anything about it, not really. Maybe he'd have a wank later. Maybe Jack would be waiting for him somewhere in the darkness of the Archives. Maybe they'd have a laugh about this, about his newly-discovered technique in bringing a problem to heel.

Hart's hands gripped the edge of the worktable, and his cheek pressed into the metal edge of the time ring. Ianto wiped his hands with a rag from the bench, even though they hadn't got dirty. He tossed the cloth and it fluttered in the air, almost weightless for a second before landing on Hart's face

"I will never be this nice again," Ianto said to the cloth. Then he dusted his shoulder, shot his cuffs, and went off in search of a good cup of Brasilian Santos.

The stun gun was reassembled, cleaned and on his desk within hours. He could see his face in the chrome.

END


End file.
